Good Form
by potterology
Summary: Captain Swan drabbles. "Sometimes, in his darker moments, he wants to crawl inside her skull and live there." T. Rating may change.
1. and after

**WARNING SPOILERS**. A/N - This might be terribly formatted. I wrote it on Tumblr for the lovely Amber and it looks okay to me now but I don't know if it'll translate when published. Anyway, here, have my Captain Swan feelings.

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Sometimes, in his darker moments, he wants to crawl inside her skull and live there, inhale only the puritanical wonder he feels when around her, as though if he couldn't be inside her, he could at the very least be within, absorbing her through osmosis. Lately, it feels as though she wants to do the same. With every look, every polite brush of their hands while passing his flask back and forth, he starts to imagine that she might want to strip the skin from his bones and wring all his secrets from the muscle underneath, every smile gnaws at his guts and he will not withstand the onslaught for much longer. Sooner or later, he is going to spill out onto the ground between them; intestines spelling out her name as they fall, his stomach lining melting under the heat of her gaze, his kidneys failing under the sweetness of her lips, his heart singing her name as it beats its last.

There had been a fight. Rapid and seething on both sides, Peter and his band of devils had attempted to ambush them while they slept. Being caught off guard had, of course, been a ruse. Killian had felt something different in the air for the past day or so, had mentioned it to Emma in a quieter moment, who had then spread it around the group subtly just in case he was right. So, feigning exhaustion, Snow and Charming had cuddled up under tree, concealing their drawn weapons under a heavy blanket; Regina and Tinker Bell lay together near the fire, both muttering incantations under their breath; and Emma had tucked herself near him, silent, waiting with baited breath. Such proximity had him riled up to begin with, so when Pan did finally make his move, Killian became a wild beast, giving no quarter.

The skirmish ended in their favour and, thankfully, one step closer to Henry. Even he felt elated at the small, but important victory, yet Emma had only become quieter, stepping away from the group after a few moments claiming a need to gather wood for the dying fire.

He followed her. Should not have, most likely, but he had and now they were here.

They had all fought close enough to the edge to look out and over the cliff, and, frankly, Hook had never been a fan of heights. Although being of the conquering party, he could not help but feel a sense of foreboding - as though something big were on the horizon, something insurmountable and of which he should be afraid - and the feeling was not unlike what he felt upon discovering the Prince's dreamshade deception.

"Emma?" he asks gently, not wanting to crowd her. She is shaking slightly; adrenaline overload he suspects.

"We won," she replies, turning slowly. She is smiling he is surprised to see and despite his innuendo and constant flirting, the last thing he expects is for her to rush forward, closing the gap between them, pressing her lips to his as her hands dug into the collar of his jacket, holding him to her.

Action dictated reaction - three hundred years in no-man's land had not made him completely oblivious to the basic laws of nature - so the moment her lips touched his, his hand went to her jaw, sliding into her hair, his fingers tangling in the soft blonde strands. He could feel himself being pulled down into her, closer still, until their bodies were pressed wholly against one another's. She need not have bothered. Surely the gravitational force surrounding her that had been drawing him in for months would have finished the job for her. Soft warmth radiated through his clothes, through his skin and crept into his bones, replacing marrow and blood until his heart beat her name alone.

As if would have done, as it has always done since the moment he met her and he is suddenly so very sorry he didn't realise it sooner. His arm came around her waist, securing her to him, as she deepened the kiss, her tongue licking into his mouth.

How did the old adage go? Something about wild horses. No, he thinks, there is not a force on the good green Earth that could tear him from the woman in his arms, kissing him with a passion and abandon he had never before witnessed from the so typically well put together Sheriff. He needs air, he knows, but he would gladly forsake all function if it meant never having to let her go. And then, just as quickly as it started, it's over, leaving him breathless and frustrated and wanting so much more than a simple, yet thrilling, kiss. But this is not about him - he is not so oblivious with need to miss the quiet sob that escapes her and he has no desire to scare her away - so he stays silent, eyes closed, and rests his forehead against hers.

"Thank you," she says, so lowly he would not have heard her were they not breathing the same air. "For everything." They pull apart after a long moment, him stepping away and her shaking the tension from her hands as she walks back into the clearing.

Later, he might recall her breathy tone as what truly had him falling in love, but really it will be how she sighs his name into his mouth when he pushes into her for the first time. But that is then and this is now, and right now all he wants to do is breathe.


	2. no man is an island

She is far too drunk to be holding a razor blade this close to your face.

Shit. Shit. _Shit_.

It's four o'clock in the morning; her parents are asleep downstairs, mercifully oblivious to their heavily intoxicated daughter straddling the leather clad legs of Storybrooke's resident pirate, one of David's classic razors pressed to the delicate skin along the curve of said pirate's neck. Her bathroom is small - too small, really - so she's sitting on the counter, sans jeans because they were "too fucking tight" and apparently not conducive to jumping up onto sinks while drunk, her knees on either side of your thighs, ankles hooked into the crooks of your knees, holding you in place.

Your skin burns at the gentle (read: too few) points of contact: your fingertips to her hips, her wrist to your collarbone.

The two of you are so close that her breath ghosts over your lips. You may as well be kissing. _Shit_.

"So what are we talking here, Capp'n? Rough and tumble, or silky smooth?" She smiles lazily, pupils the size of saucers, long blonde curls cascading across one shoulder as she tilts her head to look at you.

_Beautiful_. It's the only word that comes to mind when she looks up at you like that, unbridled and completely peaceful for the first time since you met her. It vaguely reminds you of the first time you set foot on the Rodger, back when she was still the Jewel, a moment full of wonder and possibility, and you'd like to think perhaps Emma holds that for you now. For the first time in so very long you are thinking of a future, of what if's and when's and how's and white dresses and little boys with her eyes and your she know? How much you want it? She might not love you, not yet, but there is an attraction, certainly, and isn't that always how it starts?

Without thinking too hard about it, your eyes drift down, flitting over the white tank top and lacy black underwear, long legs wrapped around —

The blade pulls away from your neck for a moment as she taps it impatiently against the underside of your chin, bringing you out of your somewhat borderline lechery, with one eyebrow arched as if to say "_I know exactly what you were just thinking_".

"Just don't make me look like a bloody child," you reply, voice low, a little thick because dammit she's making it very hard to concentrate on anything but the feeling of her legs tugging you in closer. She nods, biting her bottom lip to keep from laughing, before reaching behind her for the bowl of shaving cream and brush.

The next several minutes are spent in silence as she applies the cream in long, slow strokes; so concentrated as she is with the task, she barely notices your hand gently slipping under her shirt, your cold palm coming to rest against the warm skin of her waist. You toy with the idea of leaning in, closing the short gap between you, and pressing kisses to the curve of her jaw or the dips and valleys of her neck, shoulder and breasts. She would let you, here in the dim light, when the time is just late enough to be considered early. There are no delusions: the only reason you are allowed to be here now, in her home and her personal space, is entirely down to happy circumstance (booze plus a late night). Were you to make a move, it would either go one of two ways: you would wake tomorrow morning and never be looked at nor spoken of again, or you'd be welcomed with open arms.

Cool air rushes into the void when she pulls away suddenly, setting down the bowl and brush. The blade, still warm from where it lay across her leg, returns to your face, this time resting gently against your jaw.

Intimacy the likes of which you have not seen in centuries fills the room, soaking through your thin shirt, creeping under your skin, twisting around your heart tight enough to take the breath from your lungs.

"Do you trust me?" she asks, oblivious to your sudden discomfort.

You suddenly want to be very far away, want to be back on the Jolly possibly sailing into the chaotic depths of a fresh portal, or even giving the Crocodile a good run for his money in a sword fight. Either option seems safer than letting her touch you anymore.

There is only so long you can hold out against the barrage of sheer _love_ that threatens to overwhelm you every time she so much as breathes in your direction. Clearing your throat, you half-whisper, half-grunt, "Of course."

Without further prompt, she raises the blade, sets it against your skin and pulls.


End file.
